


Sherlock is a Very Light Sleeper

by affluent_absolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, just one huge fluffy fic, ongoing, possible demisexuality, questioning Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affluent_absolution/pseuds/affluent_absolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleeping Sherlock prompts John to kiss him. . . but John is both prepared for and taken aback by Sherlock's response. (Eventual asexual Sherlock)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love asexual!lock, so I decided to write some. Has not been beta'd or brit-picked. Constructive criticism welcome.

John opened the door and his eyes fell on his flatmate, laying on the sofa, wrapped in his robe. Sherlock's chest rose and fell slowly, a sure sign that he was asleep. Finally; John was fairly sure that Sherlock hadn't slept in days. He shut the door as quietly as he could, wincing at the click the lock made as it slid into plays. He placed the keys gently on the counter and slid his jacket off of his shoulders. He crept into the sitting room until he was standing beside Sherlock's form.

 

Sherlock had been awake since the door opened. While he had been chasing Moriarty, he had become a very light sleeper. Even the slightest noise made him awake with a quick heartbeat and straining ears. After he had woken up, it took him just a few seconds to remember where he was.

_Baker Street._

_John._

_Coming home from the pub, no doubt._

His breathing slowed.

_Safe._

 

John looked down at his sleeping flatmate. His face was so peaceful. All the stress of their most recent case had melted off, leaving a decidedly less intense view of his features. Prominent cheekbones seemed somehow softer, those perfect lips slack in sleep. Long lashes fluttered against his cheeks. John's eyes roved over that familiar landscape that looked so different when it wasn't carrying the responsibility and stress of whatever case was on. He realized he must look rather creepy just standing beside the sleeping form, and dropped down to a crouch.

 

Sherlock knew that John was standing over him. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. John was just looking. Sherlock could feel his eyes roam over his face and resisted the urge to move away from the peircing gaze. He felt the brush of air as John crouched down beside him, but why?

 

_Why?_

 

John was very cautious and calculated with his movements. A caloused hand reached up and gently pushed the raven curls from the detective's face. God, they were soft. John had never conciously dreamed about doing that, but know he realized that he had, in fact, entertained the notion. His fingers brushed the tendrils behind the man's ear and trailed down, curling around his jawline before pulling away at the chin. Sherlock's eyelashes fluttered minutely, but his breathing remained steady.

 

God, what was John doing? No, he knew _what_ John was doing. But _why_ was he doing it? It took all of his willpower not to shiver when those steady fingers grazed his skin. He had never experienced anything like it. It was. . . interesting. John was pushing his hair back. It tickled, it really did. He breathed in and out as evenly as possible, hoping that John hadn't noticed the minute hitch in his breath when those fingers brushed his face. He had known for quite a while that he had been in love with John, but had always assumed it was one-sided. John was straight, he was only interested in a platonic relationship. But John was certainly contradicting all of those "I'm not gay"-s. Unless, of course, this was a platonic act. Do friends do things like this? Sherlock certainly didn't know. Friends, among other things, were definitively not his area.

 

John contemplated whether or not what he was about to do was a good idea. Sherlock was asleep, right? So it couldn't be too bad. With a shaky breath, John ducked his head and brushed his lips quickly against Sherlock's.

 

Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He opened his eyes.


	2. It's All Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has to explain to John something that he's never discussed with anyone, ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried my best at getting the character dialogue right. . . if anything seems clunky or out of character, please tell me. Thanks for reading!

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John jumped back at the sudden movement and nearly fell. Sherlock's hand darted out and latched onto his forearm, effectively steadying him and keeping him in place.

 

"John." Sherlock's voice was dead serious. He eyes were ice, locking onto John's and not letting them go.

 

"Sherlock, I thought-- never mind. Let me go." He tried to wrench his arm from the man's grip, but Sherlock was surprisingly strong. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, okay, just-- can we just forget about this?"

 

"No." Sherlock's first word of the exchange other than the other man's name shocked him. No? What did he mean, no? No, we couldn't forget about it? No, it wasn't okay? John sighed and broke eye contact.

 

"John."

 

John rubbed his face with the palm of his free hand and looked at the man. "Hm?"

 

"I'm going to let go now."

 

"Then bloody well do it." The grip was released from John's forearm and dropped limply to the sofa as Sherlock sat up.

 

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry if--" He was cut off.

 

"I didn't know that you felt this way."

 

"Really? You can read my thoughts with a glance and you didn't know?"

 

"Well, you were so adamant about being 'not gay' and every time we get mistaken for a couple you practically bend over backwards the dispute the claim."

 

"Yeah, well. . .."

 

"Well what?"

 

"I don't know. Look, I'm gonna make us some tea okay? And we can talk about it, I guess."

 

"Okay." Sherlock looked down. They were going to talk. If John wanted something more, well, then he was going to have to tell him. He was going to have to risk him leaving, and then he would have to accept it if John left. It was the only response the others had given, anyways.

 

John clattered around the kitchen, getting out tea and the kettle. Sherlock wasn't mad. That was good. He hadn't stormed off to his room. Also good. He seemed willing to talk about. . . this, whatever it was. What exactly _was_  "it", anyways? John didn't exactly know. He mulled "it" while the kettle boiled. What did he want from Sherlock? A relationship, a deeper one? Yes, he supposed. It wouldn't be a far step from their existing relationship. Sex? Perhaps, but Sherlock was "married to his work," or so he said, so John wouldn't be terribly hurt if Sherlock didn't want sex. But what else? Kisses, cuddling? Did John want that from Sherlock? It'd be nice, certainly, but--

 

The kettle whistled a high, peircing sound that shook John from his thoughts.

 

He busied himself with putting the tea together just how Sherlock liked it. As he returned to the sitting room, he noticed Sherlock's demeanor. The man was bent over, picking at the hem of the dressing gown. He looked. . . sad. Heartbroken. John wondered why. He placed Sherlock's tea on the table and sat down, cradling his own cup.

 

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock blurted.

 

"What? Why?" John put his cup down on the table as well. "You've got nothing to be sorry for," he said, craning to look at Sherlock's forlorn face.

 

"I can't give you sex," The man muttered.

 

"Oh. Well, that's alright." John picked up his tea again and sat back. "That's all?"

 

"That's all?" Sherlock seemed angry now. "I tell you that I can't give you sex-- something a previously heteronormative man with a string of pretty but stupid girlfriends obviously craves-- and you act like it's nothing?"

 

"Well, yeah," John takes a tentative sip of his tea. "It doesn't bother me. Does it bother you?"

 

"It may not bother you now, but later it will. And you'll leave. They all do." Sherlock looked away as if he'd said something wrong.

 

"Sherlock, look," John put his tea down. Again. "I am _not_ going to leave. Never will. C'mon, I've opened the fridge for toast and seen thumbs. Thumbs, Sherlock, and you think I'm going to leave because you can't give me _sex_? I thought you could deduce better than that. I am not a 'they', Sherlock. You have to learn that."

 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. It was a strange moment of silence for both. Sherlock, for once, struggled for words. John was astounded at the apparent fact that the eloquent detective was struggling for words. They stared at each other.

 

"So. . . you're not going to leave?" Sherlock stared at his tea and the lack of steam rising from the surface.

 

"No. It's fine, Sherlock, really. It's all fine."

 

"Then what do you want, if not sex?"

 

"Well, are you opposed to a relationship?"

 

"What would said relationship entail?" Sherlock shifted to sit cross-legged directly across from John, who had been leaning against the opposing arm rest.

 

"I don't know. Normal relationships have kissing, cuddling, hugging-- stuff like that. But this--" John gestured between himself and Sherlock. "--whatever it is, is anything but normal."

 

Sherlock nodded. "Is that what you want?"

 

"Is that what you're comfortable with?

 

"You can't answer a question with a question, John. It's tedious and annoying."

 

"Sorry."

 

"So is that."

 

"What is?"

 

"Saying sorry. You've said it at least four times in the last ten minutes."

 

"Oh." John almost said sorry again, but thought better of it.

 

"I believe it's your turn to answer my question."

 

"Right, ah," John licked his lips. "I certainly wouldn't mind any of that stuff. It's fine if you don't want to, erm--"

 

"Please don't do that."

 

"What is it this time?" He shifted his position.

 

"That thing you do, where you try not to offend anyone. Just answer the question."

 

"Then, yeah, I guess. That stuff would be nice."

 

"Thank you."

 

"So are you opposed to any of it?"

 

"Not particularly, no. I've never done some of it, but I suppose we could learn as we go?"

 

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great." John smiled. Or rather, he grinned. he grinned a huge, stupid grin at his gorgeous asexual boyfriend.

 

"What?" Sherlock looked at John, confused.

 

"Oh, ah, nothing. Just happy, is all." Sherlock nodded and returned a small, lingering smile.

 

John picked up his tea again. It was cold.

 

"Bugger," He muttered. 


	3. In Which Sherlock is still a Very Light Sleeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some cuteness to continue the asexual!Sherlock fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two at once! Aren't you guys lucky ;) But seriously, thanks for all of the support! I love you all!

They fell asleep on the sofa. After John had dumped the cold tea in the sink, he returned to see that Sherlock had moved closer to the center of the sofa. It seemed like an obvious invite to sit near him, so John did. He took the seat to Sherlock's left and turned to him.

 

"Want to watch crap telly? That show you hate should be on."

 

"Which one?" John smiled and picked up the remote. He turned the telly on and flipped through channels until he found something that Sherlock could shout at. He reclined into the cushions with his hands behind his head. Sherlock stayed in his upright position for several minutes. After one particularly violent outburst at the show's host, Sherlock sat back and rested his head against John's shoulder.

 

"Why are people such idiots, John?" He asked, looking up into John's eyes.

 

"Not everyone can be a genius, you know," He replied. He smiled. Sherlock was leaning against him. It was nice. He was warmer than expected, and although it was John's first time with a man, it didn't feel unfamiliar or awkward.

 

He was leaning against John. And John was okay with it. His mind was still reeling with how well the last hour or so had gone. John's chest moved slowly as he breathed. It was oddly calming. The anger at the show host's stupidity melted away the longer he lay there. He really didn't see the point in ever moving from this spot ever again. He wondered how he had managed not to do this before. Possibly because he had never seen the point. But now, God, now he did.

 

After the show ended, John leaned down to pick up the remote. Sherlock settled back against his doctor, feeling very much at peace. John's arm wrapped around to meet the other and flip through channels. He found an old movie in black and white with crackly audio and put the remote down. But he didn't move his arms. One stayed protectively around Sherlock's torso, and Sherlock very much liked it.

 

About a half hour later, John moved. A quick wave of panic rushed through Sherlock's mind, but was quickly swept out by a new and unfamiliar emotion-- trust. He trusted that John wasn't leaving. He had total trust in John and it frightened him ever so slightly.

 

"I'm going to the bathroom," John said, standing up. "I'll be right back." He stretched and left the room.

 

Sherlock smiled. This was far better than he had imagined it to be. It had always seemed so mundane, so domestic. So boring. But it was nothing but boring. Sherlock leaned sideways on the couch, curling his knees up and laying on his side. He really was quite tired.

 

When John returned, he found the detective asleep on the sofa. Again. _Doesn't sleep for a week, and now that's all he wants to do,_ John thought as he switched off the telly. The man was breathing evenly and peacefully. John doubted he would get him like this again, but--

 

He found himself crawling cautiously over Sherlock's form. Sherlock had left plenty of space between his back and the back of the couch. Purposely? _Maybe,_ John thought. Maybe the man being worryingly thin wasn't always such a bad thing. His body fit perfectly in the space and his knees fit nicely into Sherlock's curled ones. One arm lifted and stretched over Sherlock's torso, and. . . Perfect.

 

John smiled as he drifted to sleep. He wished this would never end.

 

Sherlock had been awake since the telly turned off. He agreed with John, he was fairly sure. This really was quite wonderful. He understood sentiment now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I simply adore Sherlock being a light sleeper. It's such an efficient plot device.


	4. Connector, mostly. Fluffy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy morning segment. Skippable, only the last two or three sentences are really important. (The next chapter is asexuality research, if that interests you.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at all of this terrible formatting because I only write on mobile at ten at night. Apologies.

It took Sherlock a few seconds to remember why when he woke up there was a strange warm form pressing against his back.

 

_John._

 

Sherlock smiled and snuggled a little closer into John. He should be nervous, with this being the first time he'd done it and all, but he didn't feel much anxiety. He felt. . . peaceful. In his limited card catalog of emotions, peace was one that he rarely experienced. Usually his nervous system had more adrenaline pumping through it than it knew what to do with. Leaving his pulse thready and fingertips electrified, Sherlock had grown to love the sharp chemical with highs akin to the high from drugs but far fewer downsides. This one he could experience with John, after all, which only made it all the better. He felt happiness occasionally, usually while the adrenaline drained from his system and he could watch John grinning without the threat of a serial killer. But peace-- peace was even rarer, like a skittish beast lurking in the farthest and darkest corners of his mind, even more likely to shy from the light after the escapade with Moriarty. But on those blissful occasions when peace feels generous and comes out to play, it's always around John, and today was no different.

 

"Good morning." Sherlock noticed John's eyes glint a bit, reflect something of a sparkle, as he stretched behind Sherlock. He brought the arm slung around Sherlock up to brush the raven curls back behind his ear. "Breakfast?"

 

"That would be wonderful, John."

 

"It's early."

 

"Mmm." Sherlock didn't move. He wasn't intending to, until they were jolted apart by Mrs. Hudson bursting through the door.

 

"Sherlock, I've brought your tea. I hope I didn't wake you, I heard voices, so I-- oh!" Mrs. Hudson nearly dropped the tea when she entered the room. Sherlock and John had jumped apart, but they were still rather close together on the small sofa and both had a rather bewildered look about them.

 

"Finally!" Mrs. Hudson grinned a grin that John could only describe as devilish and pushed the tea things back into the upright position. She brushed her hands on her apron. "I'll just leave you two alone then." And with that she left the flat as quickly as possible, but not without a glance and smile to herself.

 

"So," John looked at Sherlock and smiled. "Breakfast?" He stood without waiting for a response and busied himself in the kitchen. Sherlock picked up one of the teacups and sipped at what hadn't splashed onto the tray. He stared at John as the man prepared what little food they had in the flat. John was smiling; he seemed to be restraining himself from whistling. Sherlock nearly asked him why, but came across the answer himself.

 

_Me._

 

He had never been the source of someone's happiness before, especially not after he told them. Usually someone he met on a case would take an interest in him for a few days, ask for a quick fuck, and then be denied and rush out, leaving Sherlock to build another layer of walls around himself. But he had told John, and John was smiling. He was grinning, in fact, and he wasn't leaving. Sherlock smiled to himself. This was wonderful.

 

"Oh!" John exclaimed.

 

"What is it, John?"

 

"I think I'm on at the surgery today," John said. "Bugger."

 

"That's alright. We haven't got a case on." Sherlock frowned, confused.

 

"I s'pose you're right. Come on, breakfast is ready."

 

After breakfast, John scurried about the flat, dressing in one of his jumpers (that Sherlock really did not find utterly repulsive), brushing his teeth, scolding Sherlock for using his laptop instead of Sherlock's own. Sherlock merely waved it off with a typical "it was too far, all the way in the bedroom." He was checking his email to see if any new cases had potential. Boring, boring, spam. . . oh. This one looked promising.

 

"John, come here!" He called. John grunted and made his way over, tugging on a shoe.

 

"What is it?"

 

"Look at this." Sherlock pointed to the screen. "Four deaths, all previously thought to be unrelated, all previously thought to be solved. But now there's been a new one, and the others may have been connected."

 

"So the people they thought murdered them. . . they could be wrongfully imprisoned?"

 

"Yes, yes. I suppose that too."

 

"Looks interesting. You should take it."

 

"Mm. Maybe." He nodded slowly.

 

"Right, well. I'm off to work. Bye, love." John planted a quick kiss on Sherlock's cheek before grabbbing his coat and hurrying down the stairs. He didn't know if he'd been too forward, and he didn't quite want to know.


	5. Asexuality Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock researches asexuality while John is at the surgery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me if I get anything wrong; I don't want to misrepresent asexuality/demisexuality or offend anyone. I usually tend to skim through fact-heavy fics like this (ones that detail scientific studies, etc.), so I tried to interlay some of Sherlock's thoughts to make it more interesting. Con-crit welcome!

Sherlock heard the door slam and gingerly touched his cheek, smiling. He replied to Lestrade with a quick, "I'll take it. -SH" and opened a new tab. He typed "asexuality" into the search bar and watched as millions of results popped up. It frustrated him to consult the internet, but he had no other choice. Back at uni, a classmate had shoved a GSA flyer into his hand. Against his better judgement, Sherlock had attended the meeting, where he learned of asexuality. He had then left the meeting, he hadn't felt the need to learn any more about it. The word itself was enough, a simple defintion, a quick fix. It wasn't as if he had planned to use it much. But now he had questions and had to consult the internet. He was prepared to sift through pages and pages of meaningless jargon to find something useful.

 

Wikipedia.

_No._

 

Asexuality.org. He opened it in a new tab. Another search result caught his eye.

 

Six weird ways the world looks different to asexuals.

_Interesting._

 

"Without sex, much of the world is nonsense."

_Much of the world is idiotic, as well._

 

"People don't believe asexuals exist."

_Fair enough._

 

"You can be asexual and still enjoy sex."

 _Interesting._ He read through the paragraph. "We don't have anything blocking our ability to feel sexual pleasure, so there's another subset of asexuals who do have sex but just don't really initiate sex or have any drive to have sex. At the same time, there are asexuals like me, who not only don't have a sex drive but also are repulsed by anything sexual at all." He wasn't repulsed, exactly. So did that mean that he could experience sexual pleasure?

 

"It really complicates relationships."

 _Dammit._  "This raises many kind of issues. For example, very often the normally sexual partner feels lack of confidence in herself (usually they think that somewhat my lack of sexual interest is because of them not being attractive), and thinks that I won't like/love her completely." Sherlock bit his pinky nail. He wasn't in the habit of doing it, but he was anxious and didn't have time to go to his mind palace now. He scrolled down.

 

"It's hard to define something by it's absence."

 _True enough._ That's why he was researching it, to try and better understand it himself and help John to understand it better.

 

And finally, "People think of asexuality like a disease." Farther down the paragraph, there was a worrying section. ". . . sapiosexuals. These are people sexually attracted to the human  _mind_ , alone." Why were there so many? Why did each cause a new sense of doubt and worry? 

 

He selected the tab he had previously opened, titled asexuality.org. "An asexual person is a person who does not experience sexual attraction." _Learn more._

 

He began scrolling. _Blah, blah, same emotional needs, yes, some are happier with a group of close friends (ha!), some seek long-term partnerships, obvious._ "Many experience attraction but feel no need to act on it." Believable. He had experimented in uni, of course, but never felt the carnal need to act on any attraction, unlike his "partners." The page said that arousal is regular, but not associated with a desire to find a partner(s). It seemed like what had happened in uni. He hadn't felt a deep desire to find a sexual partner, but he had had a string of them, usually because the drugs came cheaper that way.

 

"There is no litmus test to determine if someone is asexual."

_Damn._

 

The FAQ section was rather dull, except for one question: "I could never tell people about this. They'd think I was a freak or laugh at me!" The answer was rather idiotic, however, the basic stuff you tell to children; 'people are accepting if they know what it is.'

_Easy for you to say._

 

Another question caught his eye, "Can asexuals have successful romantic relationships with sexuals?", but the response was the same material of the previous, with a few exceptions. It was "difficult to work with," but sometimes partners "compromised by having sex occasionally" or both experiment with "pseudosexual behavior" to find things that work for both. "Excellent communication" was apparently a key. He would have to work on that one. He clicked back to the main search page and scrolled the rest of the way down. A related search was "demisexuality." He clicked it. It let to fewer pages, but still millions. He clicked the first reliable result: demisexuality.org.

 

He quickly learned that demisexuality was the sexual attraction to another individual only after a strong emotional connection had been made. The idea was intriguing to him. He had never had a close emotional attraction to anyone before. Well, before John at least. He searched through the "Am I demisexual if. . ." section, but found nothing useful. But in various other sections, he learned that demisexuality was on the asexual spectrum (so he wouldn't be totally wrong if he happened to be demisexual) and that two thirds of demisexuals were uninterested in sex. That seemed reassuring.

 

There was a section about coming out that he skimmed. It said that you were supposed to "come out" in the very beginning of the relationship (he supposed he had; "married to his work"), and when dating (but his and John's relationship didn't match up with that; they had been very close for a while before _this_ ). Apparently, it was also possible to "come out" in a more established relationship (had he done this, to a degree, at least?). There was also a section about dating demisexuals, but it more or less said exactly what the asexuality section had said.

 

The "you might be demisexual if. . ." section was relatively helpful for three reasons. Firstly, the point about having mixed feelings about sex. He wasn't opposed to sex, exactly, it juat didn't seem to have a point. He felt he may be able to enjoy sex, given the right situation, and that seemed to fit the description.

 

Secondly, "flirting doesn't make sense." A lot of social customs didn't make sense to him, so his understanding (or lack thereof) of flirting could be attributed to that. But the few girls that had taken an interest in him back in school did say and do a lot of strange, out-of-character things. Had that been flirting? It wasn't like he had had friends to tell him.

 

Thirdly, "you would prefer to date your friends." That one was obvious.

 

Sherlock slammed the laptop shut and stood up. Even for him, it was almost too much to process at once. He picked up the skull from the mantle and began spewing information at it.

 

"Am I asexual? Am I demisexual? Am I some weird in-between? Do I not fit anywhere? I suppose it would make sense for me to not fit in anywhere, but really? Again? How different can I _be_? Do I even need these lablels? Can't I simply be happy with John? No, impossible. I'm incapable of such a simple thing. Of course there's always the possibility that he'll leave, just like the others. I trust him, yes, but trust itself is untrustworthy. A small amount of doubt must always be exercised. I just want John to be happy, but it would be so nice to _belong_ for once!" He all but slammed the skull down and sighed heavily. He would sleep for once, if he could. Just to forget all of this for awhile. But it wouldn't be possible. His brain didn't turn off like that. He sighed, resigned, and waited for John to get home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Websites used:  
> asexuality.org  
> demisexuality.org  
> http://www.cracked.com/article_21988_6-weird-ways-world-looks-different-when-youre-asexual_p1.html  
> Note: The opinions of the responses or articles on the websites are in no way my own; they are how I think Sherlock would respond to them.


	6. At a Crime Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are beckoned to a scene. Anderson and Donovan are assholes. John is vaguely BAMF-y.

John returned late that night, jabbering apologies and something about being short-staffed on a such a busy day. Sherlock nodded politely as John made tea. There was so much turmoil in his thoughts; he tried his best to zone out and listen to John's voice. John announced that he was going to bed, and Sherlock had a moment of panic. Would they sleep in their own rooms? Or share a bed? But John brushed Sherlock's hand, smiled, and trod upstairs to his own room. Sherlock returned to his own not much later, but wasn't able to get much sleep.

  
The next morning he received a text from Lestrade. It stated, "there's been another one." He dressed quickly and glanced at his phone again for an address.

  
"Come on, John! We're need at the scene!" He pulled on the Belstaff and tapped his foot impatiently by the door.

  
"Right! Sorry!" John hurried down the stairs, tugging on his shoes. Sherlock opened the door, making sure it didn't hit John. He hailed a cab and climbed in, John scrambling after him. John rode quietly to the scene, only speaking once when Sherlock was lecturing the driver on which route to take. When they got there, he tossed a generous tip at the cabbie with an apologetic smile. Sherlock was already striding across the scene, lifting the tape for John, who ducked under and followed Sherlock into the building. Lestrade rehashed the details of the case while Sherlock looked over the corpse. It was gruesomely twisted into an unnatural position, but it was obvious that the majority of the twisting had occurred post-mortem.

  
"There are fingerprints, and we have the man in custody," Lestrade said.

  
"Release him."

  
"Sorry, what?" Lestrade stared at Sherlock. "Sherlock, there's evidence--"

  
"Wrong. These prints were lifted from the man and placed on the corpse by someone else. Release the man and watch him closely for any suspicious activity."

  
"If you say so." Lestrade shrugged and headed away to consult another officer.

  
Sherlock and John walked outside and stood, looking at the mess the police had made. Without warning, John stood on his tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock's cheek.

  
"That was amazing," he said. "The, ah, the deductions."

  
Sherlock smiled. The smile quickly fell, though, when Anderson shouted at them from across the scene:  
"Who tops?" The vulgar question was followed by laughter, particularly from Donovan.

  
"Neither!" John yelled back. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and passed them both under the tape, hailed a cab, and shoved them both into it in what seemed like one fluid motion. Sherlock stared at John's hand, which was still entwined in his, and John released it.

  
"Don't listen to them," he said, carefully avoiding eye contact with Sherlock. "Your flaws, whatever you think they are, make you _you_ and I won't have you being ashamed of yourself."

 

He didn't expect anything in return, verbal or otherwise, so John turned to the window as the cab pulled away from the curb. He was incredibly surprised when he felt Sherlock's nearly trembling lips touch his cheek very, very gently, and his hand come to rest silently over John's.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This might be a little out-of-character for this fic's format/subject matter, but I'm at the Governor's School and I need to write something in the time I have right now, so here you go.

Sherlock thinks that John is amazing. There's not a lot of complexity happening when he thinks about John, really. It's like one of those things that people love and sure, there's reasons, but when asked, none come to mind. They just love it.

Sherlock just loves John.

There's the whole deal with his loneliness (which, Sherlock will affirm, he was very much _not_ ), but he was no longer alone and that was better than anything. It was common knowledge that Sherlock was hated by his peers in school, ever since he started. His mother had been approached about having her children skip grades, but she either hadn't cared enough to consider it or she thought her children should be with others their own age rather than their own intelligence level. Either way, Sherlock was eons ahead of his classmates and they all loathed him. Oh, and the deductions didn't help, either. Looking back, Sherlock realized that perhaps when the boy to his left had snickered at him in class, he maybe shouldn't have stood up and announce his crush on the girl next to him. Yes, perhaps a beating could have been avoided that way.

When he got older, he grew into his looks, more or less. His bone structure emerged and he figured out how to groom his hair. Black clothing and generally not talking to anyone made him appear mysterious, and men and women alike threw themselves at him. There were some here and there that he didn't find altogether repulsive, and tried his hand at relationships. He discovered quickly that he preferred women to men, romantically. However, men were men (he assumed, but couldn't be sure, that women would be the same way) and eventually he was placed in the awkward situation in which he had to explain to the man sitting on top of him that, no, this wasn't his fault, and yes, he loved him, and no, please don't go.

But they always did.

 

-

 

John often wonders if Sherlock is so stubborn about his lack of loneliness because he never knew what it felt like to not be lonely before... well, him. John knew little about Sherlock's romantic past, and he didn't care to know much about the individuals themselves. He did want to know what, or who, made Sherlock the way he was now. He wanted to punch said person's lights out too, and that's why he didn't particularly want to know who exactly Sherlock dated in the past. He knew enough to know that Sherlock expected everyone to leave at one point or another, for one reason or another. Boyfriends because of the whole asexuality thing, and flatmates because of the whole heads-in-the-fridge thing.

So for now, John was content with just staying.


End file.
